


We Can Never Go Back to Before

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Discussion of Rape, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month after Starsky comes home from the hospital, the tension of Starsky and Hutch living under the same roof comes to a head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Never Go Back to Before

After easing the front door shut, Hutch jogged down the stairs of Starsky's brown shingled house. He turned onto Redwood Canyon Road to set out on his run. It was just after sunrise and the birds in the surrounding trees were in full chorus, a symphony of nature's music. Hutch barely heard them over the pounding of his sneakers on the cement, and the dull roar in his head.

Going left on Poppy Lane and headed for the protected forestry lands less than a mile away. He planned on a run that would exhaust him enough that he could really sleep tonight. Providing that he made it through the entire day, that is, without losing it big time with Starsky. He didn't know what the problem was anymore. Well, he did know what the problem was, he just wasn't sure how to fix it.

Ever since Starsky had gotten out of the hospital exactly a month ago, they'd been living together, squashed into a one bedroom house that was too small by half. Living cheek and jowl with Starsky just proved two things. Starsky was a grumpy patient and a lousy roommate. When Starsky was in the hospital, they'd spent as much time as possible together, but Hutch had had to leave for work most days to accrue enough benefited time for when Starsky came home. Their already close bond had deepened until Hutch literally missed Starsky the moment he stepped on the elevator to leave. However, they hadn't been bumping hips in the single bathroom and fighting over the last drop of orange juice every morning. Something had to give, and soon, or he was going to move out on a semi-invalid who had blue eyes that melted his insides.

Added to that was the time of year. Although Hutch was never going to like May again, September had to be one of the worst months. The endless days were oppressively hot with the horrible Santa Ana winds that kicked up mid-afternoon, and just about blew what ever good spirits Hutch had that his buddy had survived such a horrible ordeal straight out the window.

How could he feel this way? How could he even be contemplating leaving Starsky in this situation? It was either that  
or...

Hutch skittered away from a startled deer who bounded across the road just where the cement ended and the dirt fire road began. He stopped, hands on his thighs, panting, watching a whole family of deer catch the urgency of the first one and turn black tail to run. When Starsky had first moved up into the snaky canyon roads Hutch had teased him about turning into a nature boy because of the plethora of creatures that daily walked the neighborhood. Redwood Canyon road was only ten minutes from a large grocery store and had easy access to the freeway, but was just isolated enough to feel like the problems of Bay City and the rest of the LA basin were far away.

Which is why Hutch usually loved jogging around the area. Starsky was still taking enough painkillers that he slept soundly until nearly eight, giving Hutch a certain amount of freedom in the early hours. The bright mornings pushed the cobwebs of sleep out of his brain and refreshed him, or so the theory went. These last few days, the jog was more of an escape from--what? Hutch wasn't even sure any more. Starsky? The tangled mess of their lives? The lingering fear that Gunther could still have influence over their lives even when he was behind bars? Or just that Hutch was depressed.

Swell time to be depressed, when his best buddy was recovering, and from all reports, far faster than doctors had predicted. It was most probably the hot, dry, oppressive weather that had his spirits in the toilet. Or maybe he just missed the action on the streets. What ever it was, Hutch tried hard not to lay his gloom on Starsky.

Once the deer had passed, Hutch sprinted down the dirt road like the demons of hell were after him.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"You're up already?" Hutch came through the front door sweaty from the exercise and was surprised to see Starsky sitting huddled on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee.

"I was worried about you. You left so early."

"Me?" Hutch laughed off the concern. "Nothing to worry about here, pal. I'm going to catch a shower, you need anything first?"

Starsky, who still looked half hung over from the cocktail of drugs he took to sleep, shook his head, holding up the cup. "I got coffee and the TV remote, and I do know where my own kitchen is."

"Okay, suit yourself." Hutch held his hands up in surrender, grabbing some clothes out of the basket of clean, but unfolded laundry. They were getting to be slobs, the both of them. Starsky had been a tidy man, once upon a time, folding his clothes when they were washed, and stowing them in the drawers. But with Hutch doing much of the housework, and catering to Starsky's needs, he was letting the day-to-day stuff fall by the wayside. Maybe he should clean up--literally and figuratively. Chase out all the thoughts that were making him crazy while he vacuumed and scrubbed the house to cleanliness. A plan for the day was better than nothing at all.

His belly rumbling with hunger, Hutch shook his hair dry after the shower and threw on the shirt and shorts. With the predicted highs close to one hundred degrees, he have preferred to wear nothing at all. The sudden image of him and Starsky sitting around naked flashed through his mind, and he bit down on his tongue.

The smell of sausage frying tempted Hutch into the kitchen. Starsky was poking at the links with a long handled fork, a look of concentration on his face. It was the first time he'd cooked since, Hutch thought back, early May.

"I'm hungry, that looks great."

"Bread in the toaster. Can you push down the thing?" Starsky waved his fork in the general direction of the toaster, looking Hutch up and down. "You look as blue as a depressed Smurf."

"Are you color blind now? This shirt is green." He pushed down the lever on the toaster, not wanting this conversation to go any further. If there was anyone who could get under his skin to dissect him, it was Starsky.

"You look blue. Wanna spill, or do you get off on being repressed and completely locked down?"

"Where is this coming from?" Hutch said louder than he'd meant to. "You have to stop going to that psychologist if you're going to analyze everyone in the room."

"Only you in the room, and I'm just asking." Starsky plunked the plate of sausages onto the table, rubbing his chest with the flat of his hand.

"Hurting?" Hutch asked as a distraction. He buttered bread sloppily and dropped the toast onto the plate of sausages, unaccountably angry already, and the clock hadn't struck eight yet. This was going to be a long, hot day.

"Same as always." Starsky said evasively, taking his portion. "You don't want to talk about what has you moping around, that's fine. Like I give a rat's ass what's bothering you."

"Starsky..." His belly clenched into a ball, Hutch could barely look at the food, much less his partner.

"Apparently everybody on earth can poke and prod me, but the almighty Hutch is sacrosanct. And yeah, I know what that means."

Shocked into stillness by Starsky's opening gambit, Hutch carefully poured himself a cup of coffee, trying to keep his shaking hands from spilling the hot brew over the side. "Okay, yeah--I'm down..."

"Try majorly depressed. I've been there lately. You got all the signs."

"Depressed," Hutch said out loud, wondering if his father in Duluth could hear him over such a distance. His father didn't tolerate this sort of pandering to one's own emotions. Tough it out, men don't cry, and do what has to be done, those were his bylaws. Depression was for wimps. "September's never been a good month for me."

"Your birthday was last month, so you're older now, it's hot as hell, and you're outta work taking care of a cripple. Hey, let's throw a party and celebrate."

Hutch hated hearing the sarcasm coming out of Starsky, the person he could usually rely on to cheer him up.

"You're not a cripple. You get stronger every day. You made breakfast."

"Which is so tasty you haven't eaten a bite."

"Not hungry."

"Mr. Desecrated Liver and wheat germ goes for a run and drinks black coffee afterwards. So much for the healthy livin'. Y'know, I heard some people ram that stuff up their butts for an extra buzz."

"Desiccated." Hutch correctly automatically. "Vanessa left me today, nine years ago. The divorce wasn't finalized in the court for years, but September 29th, 1970 was the end of the marriage."

"Thank you." Starsky bit down on a piece of toast, his eyes boring into Hutch. Hutch could feel their heat even though he was staring down into his coffee.

"For what?" Hutch finally roused himself to say.

"I needed to know if I'd done something."

"Starsk."

"It's not exactly been the garden of Eden around here. I'm gonna help out more. Dr. Milhouse lowered the dose on the morphine again, I'll be off it soon, so I won't be so dopey during the day. And I wanna start walking, get some exercise, get out more." His voice had dropped down with uncertainty. "Stuff we could do together."

"That would be good," Hutch nodded, so tired he just wanted to sleep. Bringing up Vanessa had been a stall, but it had opened up a floodgate of memories. The fights, the accusations of infidelity, mostly from her, even though she was the one who had slept around. He hadn't, not once. But she thrown out names at him, vile insinuations to shock and wound. Then she'd thrown his police badge at him, hitting him in the cheek, drawing blood. Needless to say, they had slept in separate rooms, which had been nothing new. The next morning, after he'd gone off with Starsky to work, she'd left. Everything gone, her clothes, her dishes, even the sheets on both beds. September twenty-ninth, one fantastic day in the life of Ken Hutchinson. He'd had some doozies since then, but all in all he could easily X this date off the calendar altogether. Even the anniversary of Vanessa's murder didn't hurt as much.

"You finished?" Starsky broke into the silence.

"What?"

"You still want your desiccated sausage? Looks like road kill now."

"No, dump it." Hutch watched Starsky pick up the dishes and deposit them into the sink. His movements were still careful and controlled, a far cry from the graceful, energetic Starsky of old, but he'd come so far. There was no reason to think he couldn't make his goal, back on the force as a full time street cop.

Starsky leaned down to pick up a dropped fork and grimaced, freezing in his half bent position, obviously waiting out a spasm of pain. Hutch picked up the fork, handed it to him and laid a hand on his friend's back to help him straighten. His fingers tingled alarmingly when Starsky's t-shirt pulled free of his cut-offs and Hutch found himself touching bare skin. He jerked his hand away, pretending to grab the butter and put it back into its assigned spot on the counter.

Starsky watched him warily, still holding the fork. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

"I'm going to clean house today. You want to wash or dry the dishes?" Hutch grimaced at the two or three day pile of dirty pots, pans and crockery.

"I'll wash." Starsky plugged the sink and turned on the water. He poured in soap to make suds that bubbled around the grimy plates and cups. They worked in silence for some time, the accumulation of dishes finally scrubbed clean and shiny.

Hutch even put everything away to avoid having to go on to something else. He felt highly charged, an electrical circuit, every time his fingers would brush Starsky's soapy ones when he took a clean dish to dry. This truly was a soapy scene, and the weirdness of it made him laugh.

"What?" Starsky finished by wiping down the countertop and stove.

"Nothing, it was one of those strange thoughts that gets stuck in your head."

"I was always sorry about the way your marriage ended." Starsky made his careful way into the bedroom, as if he too were avoiding having to look directly at Hutch, or have too much contact with him. He dumped the clean clothes out onto the unmade bed and began to fold t-shirts and ball up socks.

"Me, too." Hutch followed him, automatically tucking the folded clothes away.

Starsky tossed one pair of rolled up socks into the open drawer, and gave himself a soft oral ovation like he'd scored a basket at a Lakers' game. "Yay!" He rubbed his chest again, massaging the scars that bisected his torso. Hutch had seen him do it hundreds of times in the last month, but today he itched to soothe the ache personally, gently stroking the tightness away. "I . . . I started to wonder if I was . . .affecting things between you and Van."

"Aw, Starsk." Hutch sat down on the bed. "We never should have gotten married. We were living in a fantasy world, married in our freshman year at Minnesota State U. Then I wanted to... I don't know, get away, experience new things. Duluth seemed so stifling. Vanessa--well, she was still Nancy then, decided to reinvent herself. She'd done some local modeling for department stores, and she saw moving to California as a chance to become a star. We arrived here with different goals, and it went bad immediately."

"I know I'm probably outta line here, but it's been a long time, so..." Starsky shrugged, folding a towel so precisely it could have been used in a magazine ad for beautiful bathrooms. "I never thought she was your type."

"What is my type?" Hutch bristled, thinking he should be insulted, although he really wasn't. He'd adored Nancy when he first met her. A home town girl with aspirations to greatness that had matched his own yearning to leave the nest and fly away. But when she became Vanessa, the dreams and determination had turned cold and calculating. She'd known what she wanted and was going for it. Furs, diamonds, a fancy car. His decision to become a police officer hadn't fit into her plans at all, and what had been a brewing difference of opinion erupted into all out war. Starsky's peripheral involvement had come so late into the battles that he'd just been more ammunition for combat, but certainly not any contributing cause.

"It'll probably make you madder, but you go for..." Starsky finished folding all the clean stuff, and went into the bathroom. "Damsels in distress. Delicate creatures who cling, want all your attention. Vanessa wasn't any of those things." He piled Hutch's sweaty clothes and the wet towels in the laundry basket.

"Neither are you," Hutch countered, stung by Starsky's very accurate assessment.

"Huh?"

"Since we're bringing up old baggage." Hutch stood up to tidy the bedsheets. This was not something he'd ever wanted to tell Starsky, but somehow the subject demanded to be freed from the prison he'd held it in for so long. "Van used to accuse me of sleeping around."

"Before she left?" Starsky wiped sweat from his forehead. He was already panting in the heat, and came out of the bathroom to sit down on the end of the bed while Hutch continued to fluff pillows as if he weren't there. "Never happened. Even afterwards it took you a while to get back into the groove."

"She used to shout names at me. People she thought I'd been with. One of her girlfriends, not even someone I liked. The neighbor's eldest daughter, who was about eighteen. I mean, come on..." Hutch smacked a hand against the wall, staring sightlessly at the simplistic watercolor of a fistful of flowers above the bed. "And you."

"Me?" Starsky squeaked, coming to a stand. He looked pale, but hard edged, like there was something more he wanted to say. "She thought you slept with me?"

"I did use you as an excuse to get out of being in the same room with her." Hutch chanced a look at his partner. Starsky ran a hand through his hair, the curls standing out in wild disarray, but he visibly tried to tone down his reaction, giving Hutch a sheepish grin.

"Yeah. I knew you never needed me to help you study for finals at the academy." Starsky took a slow breath, wincing. He turned away as if completely dismissing the topic. "I'm thirsty, you want anything to drink?"

"Water." Hutch watched Starsky, and found himself focusing on the hint of butt cheeks almost visible below the edge of his very short denim cutoffs. That ass, perfect round buttocks that Hutch had never been able to ignore. His own butt didn't look that way, didn't move that way. Every girl he'd ever met, even ones he was dating, had noticed Starsky's firm, round derriere. The shooting had caused Starsky to lose weight and muscle tone, but surprisingly, he still looked fine in a pair of shorts. "Would you have?"

"Would I have what?" Starsky paused just beyond the door of the bedroom, now more in the living room. Still maintaining that huge space that Hutch could sense separating them.

"Ever slept with me." Hutch wanted to close his eyes, not see the horror on Starsky's face. Except it wasn't horror, more like confusion, pain. He relaxed incrementally, and the tension that had put an iron rod up his spine subsided just a little. He'd said the words, they couldn't be taken back.

"You don't sleep with guys."

"No." The way Starsky had said the phrase, almost emphasizing the "you" gave Hutch pause. What did Starsky mean? Why hadn't they ever discussed this before? "No, I don't. Do you?"

Starsky grunted, half pain, half laugh, like he didn't want to answer.

"Starsky?"

"Viet Nam made everything different, y'know?" He wasn't really speaking to Hutch, more like talking aloud, remembering. His eyes looked glazed and distant, shoulders hunched defensively in a position that had to be painful on his healing chest. "Sometimes you just needed... somebody."

Hutch swallowed, the air between them so still he could hear the shouts of the children who lived down around the curve in Redwood Canyon road through the open window as clearly as if they were on the front driveway. Birds called shrilly, and a truck lumbered by, wailing guitar riffs from the truck's tinny radio suspended in the heat before the wind blew them away.

Like the breakup of his marriage, Starsky's tour in Viet Nam was an untouched subject. They kept so few things from each other, but pain was good at concealing itself behind topics of lesser importance.

"Starsk, it's okay." He wasn't entirely sure why he was attempting to mollify. Just something to say, to keep them both talking to each other. To patch the gaping wounds that bled redly into the carpet. How had things gotten so complicated? And why hadn't he noticed until now?

"I didn't really want to." Starsky whispered. "The base commander put the girls in the whore houses off limits 'cause of an outbreak of the clap." His hands unconsciously went down to cup his groin and he slid down the wall to crouch on the floor. "Conners was big, maybe two fifteen, he lifted weights. Used to call me a little kike. But I guess things like that don't matter in the night--after a firefight when everything is too loud and bright, the mortar shells exploding like fourth of July fireworks in the sky." He held out one hand, as if seeing something that hadn't been there since the mid-sixties.

Hutch felt a distinct and abiding pain all the way down his sternum, aching for Starsky's loss of innocence in that Godforsaken place.

Starsky spoke again, his voice raw with repressed pain. "I still had blood on my arms and face from this kid--I think his name was Wilcox. Got blown away. Conners got hurt, big gash across his back but the medics patched him up, and we went back to camp. I couldn't sleep. It was hot, like today."

He stopped talking completely, jarring Hutch out of the stupor he'd drifted into. What horror had Starsky seen before they met? Hutch could still remember sensing a whiff of some unidentified anger in Starsky those first months at the academy, but by the time they'd become rookies, it had gone away. Was this the cause? "You..." Hutch groped for a word that didn't come out sounding vulgar, but couldn't come up with anything. "You fucked Conners?"

"He raped me," Starsky said flatly, not a hint of emotion on his face. "The first time. Maybe I let him, so I guess it wasn't technically rape."

He was so still, huddled into himself, like any one of countless victims Hutch had seen on witness stands doubting their own recollections. He wanted to comfort Starsky somehow, but he couldn't cross the wide expanse of floor between them Something in Starsky's body language kept him at bay, and that hurt. Almost more than having to hear what had happened to his partner long before they'd ever met.

"After that, I convinced myself I was...I don't know, in love with him? I was in need for him. Some nights it felt so good to be that near to somebody. But I felt like shit the rest of the time. Couldn't wait to get stateside to get spit on by war protesters."

Hutch knew that was somewhat, if not directly, aimed at him. Yes, he had protested what he'd felt was a senseless war, but he'd never blamed Starsky for his involvement. Starsky had done what he had to do. Everyone had a part to play in the strangeness that was life. His had been to meet someone so completely foreign to his Midwestern sensibilities and fall--what? In love? That had never entered his mind back in 1968, even throughout their partnership as detectives. He'd fallen into brotherhood, comradeship, something that ultimately couldn't be defined by mere words in the English language. The idea that they could be in love had only surfaced recently, a timid hope like the first crocuses that poked through the snow in Spring.

What frightened him most was that Starsky had obviously never come to terms with what had happened to him. _Raped._ He looked detached, blank, as if the violence of the act had never occurred. Just exactly what had occurred? Starsky said "maybe he'd let him." Let him do what? Touch his genitals? Or the whole enchilada--anal penetration, which had to hurt the first time, no matter how gentle the insertion was. Hutch felt sick that he'd allowed himself to imagine that he and Starsky could ever, possibly, come together as more than just friends. That the joy he felt when he casually brushed skin to skin with Starsky could culminate in something sexual. Not now, not anymore. What was there to say?

"I'm sorry."

Starsky looked up sharply, anger, and something else intangible, flashing across his face. "You didn't have anything to do with it."

But I did, Hutch wanted to protest. I've thought about you spread out on the bed, naked and open for me. Instead he shrugged and held out a hand to help Starsky stand.

Starsky allowed only the minimum contact necessary to climb to his feet, then walked straight into the kitchen without ever making eye contact, to pour a glass of water. He drained it dry and filled the blue tumbler up a second time. "That damned piece of crap from Sears doesn't cool the house down one bit."

"We could go out, to the beach?" Hutch said. It sounded lame even to his own ears, like offering a Band-Aid to a man with a bullet wound. Starsky had relived hell, and he was suggesting a swim in the ocean on the hottest day of the year, when there would be several thousand Southern Californians all searching for that one patch of shaded sand. Just the thing to cure major depression. He just couldn't face any more of this anguish. Hadn't they both had enough?

"Too crowded, too hot. And I can't take off my shirt in public. I look like Frankenstein," Starsky snarled, and looked about ready to hurl the glass against the wall.

Any anger Hutch had harbored earlier in the day paled in comparison to Starsky's. All those feelings, the memory of a rape when he'd just been assaulted and laid bare all over again, first by Gunther's bullets and then the medical treatments.

"Throw it." He almost expected Starsky to protest, but Starsky hurled the innocent tumbler against the wall with a force that could have opened a few of the surgeon's stitches just a month ago. Blue glass exploded, potentially lethal shards arcing across the wall and floor.

Silent, Hutch handed Starsky a second glass, and then a third. He himself threw the fourth and fifth, but gave Starsky the honor of finishing off the set. Brittle class shattered on the stucco wall, with a sound like a gunshot. It was surprisingly cathartic, all their psychological anger turned into physical action, but when the maelstrom ended, Hutch realized with alarm that they were both standing in their bare feet in a kitchen full of sharp pieces of glass.

The last thing Hutch expected to hear was Starsky's weak giggle as they both surveyed the floor. "So much for cleaning up the house today."

"And we don't have anything to drink out of now."

"Flintstone jelly glasses," Starsky said.

Hutch nodded, judging the distance to the broom propped against the corner of the room. "I forgot about your excellent collection."

"Got every one, even the last, rarest one, with Bamm-Bamm and Pebbles." He rubbed his chest, eyes closing over the pain. Hutch's palm itched with the desire to rub that spot for him.

"If you get the one with Fred and Barney, and fill it with water, I'll sweep a path over to the cupboard, and get you a painkiller. I'm about ready for a nap in the heat of the day." Hutch stretched one leg over a cluster of sparkling blue glass and snagged the broom. He swept most of the debris into a neat pile.

"I don't need morphine. It's not that bad," Starsky said quietly, all fight gone out of him.

"So a couple of Bayers, just to take the edge off?"

"Maybe TyCos," Starsky conceded. "They don't dope me up as much as morphine."

Hutch couldn't imagine living on painkillers for such a length of time, partially because of his bout with heroin, but mostly because of the simple fact that Tylenol with codeine, in particular, made him throw up. The fact that Starsky would take the stuff proved how often he was at a level of pain that would make Hutch equally as nauseated as the drugs would have.

The broken glass was dumped in the trash can, curtains were drawn against the midmorning sun, and Starsky lay down on the bed without a coverlet over him. On his side, turned away from Hutch, sweat glistened along his backbone just where the prominent vertebrae disappeared under the curved neckline of his singlet. For a moment Hutch wondered how safe it was to lie down next to him, as was their habit.

The room seemed overflowing with emotion, both good and bad. He remembered their joy at Starsky's recovery, when they'd held each other the first night after he was home from the hospital, guarding each other from the terrors in their dreams. The sweet contentment of just being together, sharing cups of coffee and muffins on a quiet morning and arguing over who could read the sports section first.

And now, the stark, piercing shock of Starsky's revelations entwined with Hutch's admission about Vanessa. The day was getting better and better by the second. Hutch wouldn't have been at all surprised if the capricious nature of Californian plate tectonics decided today was a good idea to shift positions and dump the whole state into the Pacific on a whim.

"Aren't you going to lie down?" Starsky asked and he sounded plaintive, lost. He held up one hand without looking back at Hutch.

"Yeah, I am." Hutch sat down on the bed, taking Starsky's hand in simple friendship. He couldn't help that his cock had other ideas and stirred with interest.

"Hutch." Starsky turned over, and there was something in those fathomless dark blue eyes that spread a warmth right through Hutch. "I would have."

Time slipped away, dropping Hutch back into their conversation that seemed so long ago and yet only moments past. He didn't need an explanation for that cryptic sentence. Starsky would have slept with him.

"I'm not blind, and I know what you're feeling." Starsky raised his hand, fingers barely touching Hutch's face, tentatively stroking the hairs on his mustache. Just before the gesture became too intimate, Starsky retreated. "We got something that's so good, so strong. But I can't, not now." His voice held a cumulous of tears, but his eyes were dry.

"Not ever?" Hutch couldn't despair entirely, not the way Starsky had touched him with such awe and sweetness.

"I know you love me," Starsky said. "I just don't know where my feelings are. They're caught, pinched in the middle, and right now I can't sort things out."

"Because of that Connors, in Nam?"

"Maybe, I guess. And because of Terry, and Rosie, and Kira. If I let myself love you, what happens to the love I had for them?"

"We all love more than one person, Starsk." Hutch said, put his hands on Starsky's cheeks, kissing him, just so softly, on the bottom lip. Starsky shuddered, his whole body spasming, and he tensed, his skin as hot as an oven against Hutch's palm. Hutch didn't move his hands, but they were simply bracketing Starsky's face, not imprisoning him.

"I didn't want Conners to matter so much, and I convinced myself that I could leave him in country, in a body bag. It was in the past, and I never had to think about it again. And with girls, I didn't have to." Starsky dragged in a ragged, shaky breath that Hutch could feel through his fingers. "Don't you see? Even just the thought of bein' with you brings it up--and it wasn't good. If I was with you, I want it to be right--perfect. Not tainted with what I did with him."

"It's okay, Starsk."

"It's not!" Starsky yelled. He sat up abruptly, pressing back against the headboard as if he needed some kind of anchor to keep him grounded. "I've had Conners on my mind all the time lately, it's like I can smell him in the heat. All sweat, and heaviness. I hate him." Starsky gulped reflexively, his face so mournful Hutch wanted to hold him close and soothe away all the nastiness but he was afraid that if he came too close, he'd set off more time bombs. "I know it's been bad for the both of us. I'm grumpy and sleepy..."

"Dopey and Sneezy?"

Starsky smiled just a little at this. "You're Sneezy, allergy boy. I'm just sayin' I'd understand if you just wanted to get away, leave. I'm not good company and . . . it's like sparks when I feel your hand on me. Can't be easy for you."

Totally disregarding the decisions he'd made on the morning's jog, Hutch shook his head. "Starsk, I can't leave you. And it has nothing to do with you being any kind of cripple. You're strong, you could survive without me. I'm just not sure I'd survive without you. I can live without sex..."

Starsky barked a laugh, biting his lip on the half sob that came afterward.

Hutch regarded him as sternly as he could under the circumstances, but his heart was singing. He had a chance with Starsky! They'd just have to go very slowly, at a snail's pace, but someday they would get together. He was sure of it. "I want to stay with you, idiot." Hutch continued, giving him a gentle punch on the arm. "You're my best friend in the whole world, you think I like hearing about what happened to you in Nam?"

"That sounds familiar," Starsky knuckled his eyes, looking barely awake. "Like I've said it."

"We both have, to each other over the years. Starsky, I'd go back and arrest that shit Conners if I could, probably beat him to a pulp, but this is something you need to deal with on your own. I'll be right there with you every step of the way, but if you don't face that it was a violent act, and not some half-assed attempt at love..."

"Now who sounds like they've been reading too many psycho texts."

"Psychology texts."

"Gotcha." Starsky winked tiredly. "I know all that, Hutch. I know it. Half of me just wants to shut the door on Viet Nam, and the other half really wants to see what would happen if we..." He gestured between them, forefinger just grazing Hutch's groin.

"Let's set a date," Hutch said suddenly, savoring even the most minimal of contact. Outside he heard the wind shift against the window pane, the dry unmowed grass in the back yard rustling with excitement as if something wonderful was about to happen.

"Huh? I haven't even made an appointment the psychologist, and you're thinking about sex already?" Starsky threw one arm over his eyes with his head pillowed on the low headboard, giving up without a fight. Not very Starsky-like.

"I said it wrong. Been a long time since I went bar hopping." Hutch realized just how long. Kira hardly counted since he'd only slept with her to piss off Starsky, if he were honest. To break them up, if he were brutally honest. Even before that, he hadn't slept around as often as in years past. "Let's go on a date. Nothing big, just like old times. You and me, a couple of burgers and beers. We could even go to The Pits the first time. But it would be something more. A date."

"You want to court me?" Starsky peered at him from incredulously from under his splayed hand.

"Yeah. I'd even give you my letterman jacket, but I don't have a school ring anymore."

"Dummy," Starsky said affectionately, and impulsively leaned over and kissed Hutch on the cheek. "How about next Saturday night?"

"It's a date." Hutch smiled at Starsky, sitting so close and yet so far away in the bed. His cheek tingled in the aftermath of the kiss. "Did you ever see the movie _Funny Girl_?"

"Talk about your non-sequitors." Starsky yawned widely, lying back down, rubbing his chest. Hutch seized the opportunity, and gently pushing Starsky's hand away, began massaging the tightest of the scars on the left side. Starsky let him, a marvel in itself, and Hutch smiled, happier than he'd been since Starsky's discharge from the hospital. "What's that got to do with a date at The Pits? I was never big into Barbra Streisand."

"She sang our song." Hutch watched Starsky relax into the massage, his eyes drifting shut. With a sense that his life was turning down a new road, into the unknown, Hutch began to sing, "I'd rather be blue, thinking of you, than be happy with somebody else."

FIN


End file.
